


You Like Me Too

by strangerthanfic



Series: You Fit Together [1]
Category: Lost in Space (TV 2018)
Genre: Barebacking, Communication, Cunnilingus, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Penis In Vagina Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, but it's still safe sex due to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 10:57:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15095276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangerthanfic/pseuds/strangerthanfic
Summary: You're stuck doing busywork in the Jupiter cockpit after busting your ankle, and a perfectly fit Don West has inexplicably decided to join you in your crushing boredom.Turns out, he has an offer in mind, and you just might take him up on it...





	You Like Me Too

**Author's Note:**

> Reader's gender is not specified, though I ended up tagging this F/M to indicate Reader has a vagina.
> 
> Also, in my headcanon, Everybody is Pan in Space, as I am Pan/Bi myself.
> 
> (ALSO use condoms, kids, I'm giving these kids allowances for STIs because I imagine Resolute medical tests are ridiculously invasive.)
> 
> I'm a huge multishipper, so no ship wars here, but for various reasons I decided to write this without specifying a character from the show hooking up with Don-- you can squint and imagine who you want, though, it still works.
> 
> My first work posted to Ao3! Madness! Anarchy! Danger, Will Robinson!

You prop your splinted ankle on the console, setting off a redundant system accidentally. You kick it until the alarm squawks off, which sends a spear of pain from your instep all the way to your molars.

“Fuck,” you say, curling up and almost lowering your leg. “Ow.”

You put your leg back on the console, just for the principle of the thing.

It does give your spine a chance to relax, though.

“If you’d sit still it wouldn’t do that,” Don sighs from the copilot’s chair.

Or behind it, probably. He seems to enjoy sitting on the floor or the bulkhead or anywhere but an actual chair. The last time you looked, he was whittling a lump of plastic.

Sorta.

“Don’t you lecture me. You’re just as bored as I am. How’d you get stuck with babysitting me through seat-polishing duty, anyway?” you grumble.

“I’m not babysitting,” he says, and you hear the flip-clunk-skitter of him giving up whatever he’d been attempting and tossing the plastic chunk down the corridor. “I’m waiting the requisite time period before resetting my side of the inertial dampeners so the test results are accurate.”

“A time period of four hours!” you wail, lolling like a pouting kid.

“And I’m not bored,” Don adds as he comes into view. True to form, he drops to sit back against your footstool-console and stretch his legs out on either side of the base of your chair. It puts his shoulders at the level of your knees, so you quit swiveling in order to not bump into his face.

Also true to form, he takes your stillness as an opportunity to prop his elbow on your bent knee.

“You’re not bored?” you ask. “Two minutes ago you tried to get me to sing a round with you.”

He facially shrugs. You have a hunch that he didn’t shoulder-shrug because he doesn’t want to jostle your injured leg. The unspoken conscientiousness makes your face heat.

“I just like your singing voice,” he says.

Your face gets hotter. “That was one time, and I was drunk.”

“It was my favorite song.”

“It was your fault.”

It was his whiskey. And a mashup of We Are The Night and many, many songs by The Who.

“The memory has a lotta mileage,” he agrees. His grin shines so white in his thickening beard. Pretty soon you’re gonna have to entertain the idea of annoying him into shaving.

Except that’s not really what friends do.

Hey, out here you gotta find your entertainment where you can.

“How are you not bored?”

“You’re not bored, you’re in pain,” he responds, voice light but serious.

“How. Are you. Not bored.”

He shrugs, genially irritated into telling you the truth. “I’m not bored ‘cause I like you.”

You blink for a moment.

“You’re not bored because you like me?” you repeat.

He looks up at you through his eyelashes, biting his lower lip. Then he bites his top lip, and tips his head back. “I just came up with a boredom cure.”

He purposefully doesn’t move, doesn’t push the issue. As casual as everybody has gotten with physical space— a few near-deaths will do that to you, iron your peccadillos right out— he knows he’s changing the context, and he’s not gonna cross a line.

But he has changed the context. His gaze is heavy, unmistakable.

Your mouth goes dry. You’re suddenly over-conscious of the thickness of his triceps balanced on your thigh, the strong curve of his shoulders, the capability of his dangling hand.

“You wanna have sex in the cockpit,” you say, aware that your jaw has slackened.

His eyes crinkle. “Yeah. ‘Cause I like you. And you’re bored.”

It takes you a couple tries to speak. “We’re supposed to be paying attention to the pressure readings.”

He gives a hoarse chuckle, peaking his eyebrows in a way that almost gets you to smile. “Wouldn’t miss the alarms going off,” he says. “I’m not _that_ good.”

You squint, blurting, “Bullshit.”

Now he’s really laughing, the kind of genuine delight that gives you an actual rush.

He pulls himself into a crouch, bringing your faces carefully closer.

“Okay, I really want to give you a kiss for that,” he says, big eyes watching you closely for approval.

“Hey,” you breathe, “Um.”

“Yeah?”

You think of a couple ways to say it, but they all sound wrong. So you breathe out in a rush, “I’m not bored either.”

His face goes serious, then another, different kind of smile spreads slow across his mouth. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I still wanna kiss you,” he clarifies, bouncing once on his bent legs. Nervous, maybe, and eager.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He leans closer, hovering over you from head to hips without using you to support his weight. Body heat radiates along the insides of your legs to your collarbone.

Even parked planetside, the air in the cockpit feels chilly and dry-canned.

He is a length of warmth and enticing humidity, just out of reach.

“Okay?” he whispers against your lips.

“Okay,” you say.

Then Don West angles his head and kisses you within an inch of your life.

And you’d know, you’ve lived within an inch of your life several times, now.

Kind of unfair, how good he tastes. (Well, you’re the one who figured out how to make concentrate candies out of beet sugar.) And that he can do that with his tongue, that twist and suck you feel straight between your legs. Like a preview of what’s to come.

Pain slices a line up your body, making you jerk and hiss.

Apparently, you sat up without noticing, because your arms are hooked around his neck and your back has left the seat, putting weight on your extended ankle.

“Shh, shh-shh,” he says between shorter kisses. He presses you into the chair with one palm to your sternum and one curved beneath your knee, keeping your leg still. “Careful.”

Then his palm on your chest strokes to your collarbone, and he bends to suck at the skin of your throat framed between his thumb and forefinger.

You jerk and hiss for another reason, but this time he’s supporting your injured leg so all you feel is _good_.

You even have the leverage to hitch your hips against his stomach, pressing that warmth where you want it and making him exhale sharply through his nose.

So you try to wriggle lower, to bring your pelvises together—

His hand snakes down and holds you still, but he just so happens to choose to hold you down by firmly cupping your crotch.

Your body melts into the chair, appeased by the slow rub he gives you— but you do get a grip on his shirt before he can pull back too far.

“And I still wanna—“ he breaks off, swallowing, and it suddenly occurs to you that technically you’ve only consented to a kiss.

So, you get a grip in his hair as well as his shirt, and propose an end to his sentence: “Fuck in the cockpit?” You buck beneath his hand for good measure.

His pupils expand and his biceps twitch. His voice sounds like a sleepwalker’s. “I wanna make you come. Don’t much mind how it happens.”

Then he shakes himself, and continues in a lighter tone, nuzzling your cheek. “In fact, I’m aiming for four. Better than painkillers. Hey, there’s a drug shortage. I’m doing my civic duty.”

Your laughter is a bit strained. “How many excuses do you need to have sex with me?”

Immediately, he presses his forehead to yours in apology. “None. I just want to. Want you. Can I?” Y

ou run your thumbs over the soft beard, catching his lips with yours. “You better.”

“What do you want?” he asks, still brushing your open mouths together. The tips of his fingers are pressing into your belly in unconscious pulses, like he can’t wait.

“For round one of the promised four?” you say, and he grins against your mouth, nods encouragingly. You lean over and pretend to check the clock, and he bites your earlobe, hard.

It’s like an electric shock.

(You know how that feels, now, too.)

“Oh,” you say. “Just— touch me. Please. However you—"

He shifts into a kneel, already unzipping your jumpsuit, tugging down your tank. He licks up the center of your bared chest, sucking along the way. “Good?” he mumbles.

You make a noise that is definitely not a word.

Then his knuckles are tucked into the crease of your thigh, his thumb that’s gripping the zipper brushes low between your legs, and he has the audacity to rumble into your neck, “Keep your eye on the pressure gauge.”

You make another noise that does solidify into words: “Fuck you.”

But then he slips his hand into the vee at the end of your zipper, gets his fingers into you, and you both shudder at how wet you are.

“Hey, you really do like me,” he says. His voice is dark. It doesn’t sound like a joke.

His fingers spread your slick around, mapping your clit with breathtaking precision, then drawing back to explore.

Before you can stop yourself, you claw his wrist. “That tickles,” you huff.

“No gentle, huh?” he mumbles, sounding halfway between making a note and deciding if he wants to challenge that.

“No, not— just not light, drives me crazy—“ You yank the hair at his crown as he starts deliberately tickling you. “—in the bad way! Need— more than that— just— more—“

The bastard makes a smug noise of understanding, though how he got anything of sense out of your stuttering, you’ll never know.

Instead of letting you pull his head away, he buries his face in the crook of your shoulder and sets his teeth there. At the same time, his fingers press in, slow, and you clench in response.

Then he turns his wrist and cups his hand so that your clit rubs against the pulse point in the wet base of his thumb.

And then he just goes for it.

For a while, the only sounds are the hum of the air intake, your ragged breathing, and the slick rhythm of him making you lose your goddamn mind. He must be holding his breath to listen.

After the pleasure plateaus into something almost like a laughing fit, you half-realize that the bridge of his nose is pressed to the edge of your cheekbone, so he can watch whatever your face is doing with hooded eyes. Your open zipper digs into one nipple, and the other keeps brushing the hem of his t-shirt sleeve. The tendons in his arm ripple under your grasping hand as he works and you just… you really need to come.

“S’a pretty good ‘more,’” you tell him. “Good— calibration, there.”

Then you do laugh, because, holy shit. And you turn your face to his, so you can nip at his jaw, at his mouth.

Still weirdly silent, he carefully transfers your leg over his shoulder to free his other hand. His fingers shift inside you, and there’s a thumb and the knuckle of a forefinger rubbing thickly but pointedly, focused on your clit.

Then he speeds up, pressing you down into the chair with his shoulders, bending you slowly in half and—

That’s it. You come almost like you’re trying to escape him.

It’s been a long time, what with the constant leapfrogging into danger. Your body barely knows what’s going on.

“Fuck,” you sigh as you come down. “Your fucking hands.”

“Are you— oh— are you good with dirty talk?” he pants. “Because I don’t think I’m gonna be able to keep this in anymore.”

You smother a giggle into the racing pulse in his neck. “Why would you keep that in, was it gonna be all goofy or something?”

He shakes his head blankly. “I don’t know. Fuck, you sounded so good, I just…”

He squeezes his eyes shut, turning his head to bite the knee that’s hooked over his shoulder. “And you smell so good, and—“

His fingers twitch. Which of course means you twitch too.

Then he sucks a kiss on the same knee and says, “Hold this.”

And just as you grab for your now-wobbly, well-coddled leg, his wet hands slide around your hips inside the jumpsuit and he bends low, mumbling about round two.

“How are you supposed to talk dirty down there?” you ask.

“Gonna kill me,” he says, licking in where his thumbs have you spread open.

You’re still throbbing, and you feel yourself flutter around his tongue. He moans into it, and oh, you get it. That’s talking, kinda. The tail end of your orgasm slithers up your spine again, and the leg in your hand shakes. You fumble it into the crook of your arm, consider doing the same with your other leg, but don’t know if you have the balance in you at the moment to try.

It’s too bad, because with all the noise he’s making, this one’s gonna be quick.

“Oh, fuck, that’s good,” you say. “What’re we gonna do with the other… two hours and forty minutes?”

He pulls away a couple inches with a loud slurp. “Slow dance, you animal,” he says, then dives back in.

Speaking of slow, he seems suddenly intent on tasting every bit of you. The tone of his moaning has become almost complaining, and he’s sucking in this concerted way like he’s goading you about the tickle thing earlier.

You actually start to whine, and somewhere in all the whining, you actually call him Donny.

Then you possibly start begging him to fuck you, it’s a little hazy. And it’s been a while.

It’s so good that, perversely, you suddenly hope the two of you get caught in here.

“Oh, please,” you gasp.

There’s a footstep in the corridor— though who knows, these ships echo like a son of a bitch— and your orgasm takes you by surprise, on a spike of adrenaline.

He buries his nose in the crease of your thigh, rubbing at your ribs and groaning.

“I gotta reassess,” he stutters into your skin. “I don’t think I can make it for four.”

“Good,” you say. “Then you’ll owe me.”

He rolls his head against your thigh to smile at you like that’s the best thing he’s ever heard.

“Now get up here,” you say.

Vertigo swamps you as he somehow switches your positions, sitting and settling you above him. But you shake it off, focusing on the way he’s trying to lick your taste from his lips while also still grinning. You decide to help him with that, dabbing your tongue along the inner edge of his very talented lips. And you thought he tasted sweet before…

“Good, huh?” he murmurs. “New favorite.”

His voice is somehow both crackling out of existence and dropping an octave. You shiver. That’s _your_ new favorite.

You may have said that out loud, because you can’t think of any other reason for him to huff, “Jesus.”

In a spectacular display of ill-timed teamwork, both of you struggle with the horizontal zipper that splits your jumpsuit into a jacket and pants. You hop on your good foot until you’re mostly naked from the waist down, and crash onto his lap again.

“Ah, leg cramp,” you say, trying to shake out your overworked side without standing.

“I got you,” he says. Strong, sure, sticky fingers knead the muscles from your calf to your hip until the twinge subsides.

So, in the meantime, you multitask, freeing the buttons on his straining fly one by one.

Surprise, surprise, he has a great dick. So red it looks like it should be making noise, an engine-hum strain, or something. You don’t blame him. It’s been a while for him, too.

You lift your hips into position above him, pausing to scrape your nails down the center of his chest. Should’ve taken his shirt off, earlier. There’s a well-mended nick in the cotton, near his heart. You don’t like to think about whatever sharp thing made it.

He blows a slow breath out through pursed lips, so of course you have to kiss him.

“Hey,” he says, pretending he didn’t just kiss you back deep and long. “Give a guy a moment to prepare.”

You shift your weight so you’re barely touching him at all, and pointedly lift your eyebrows. The heated staring contest lasts forever— you see his pulse go crazy in his neck, and figure you’d be in tough shape too, if you hadn’t just come all the tension straight out of your body. Twice.

He breaks the moment by nodding jerkily, like you’ve been arguing aloud. “Good point, good point,” he allows, and grabs your ass with both hands.

“Hey, I’ve got a—“ you gesture in a way meant to convey your Resolute-issue IUD. “You?”

“Oh,” he says, then pantomimes a quick scissor snip in the air between you before returning his hand to your ass like it’s magnetized. “But I think I’ve got some med-seal in my jacket, if you’d rather—“

He cranes his neck and arches his back like he’s gonna go look for said jacket. The idea of him getting out of this chair right now for any reason totally appalls you. Especially since now that he’s leaned over, the broad head of his dick is accidentally, slickly nudging into you. Waiting for more of that is out of the question.

Squeezing his hips with your knees, you scrape your teeth up the tendon of his neck. “A pocket for everything, huh?” you say.

“Mm,” he says, and it rumbles against your lips. His breath speeds up.

“West?” you say, rucking up his shirt to scrape your short nails through the fuzz over his abs.

He groans. “Uh huh?”

“Leave it,” you say, as if your intentions were in doubt.

“Mkay,” he garbles into your mouth, more focused on kissing.

You spread yourself open with a couple fingers and start to sit onto the blunt press of him.

He breaks the kiss to cram his nose against your jaw. “Mm, fuck, fuck, slow,” he says. “Damn near came just from getting my fingers into you earlier, and I didn’t get trained for withstanding torture.”

“Neither did I, god,” you say. “This is a civilian expedition— oh.”

As you adjust to the first half of his dick, you wiggle your hips and sink another inch.

He bites back a holler, amends, “You can torture me next time.”

“Promise?” you ask, thready. The thick push of him is making you feel a little dizzy, a little vindictive.

“I’ll be ready,” he answers. Then his jaw drops and his nose crinkles as you finish your long slide.

You can’t help it, you start rocking, shivering and sliding your hands farther up his chest beneath his shirt. His palm cradles your jaw like he needs something to hold onto.

“Donny,” you whimper, then try again, embarrassed. “Don.” No, that’s weird too, something about being two orgasms in and shuddering towards another makes you want to scrape together some sanity. “West.”

He actually giggles at you, if a little breathlessly.

You push his chest. “Oh fuck you— _Donny_.”

He’s gotten a grip on your hip and thigh, braced his foot on the console, and started fucking up into you. Whatever endearment’s gonna come out of your mouth is suddenly of no importance.

The pressure sensor goes off and you both smack at it until it stops. It’s not time to reset the dampeners yet, you think, but you’re having a hard time reading numbers right now.

“Fuck, we should be doing this in a bunk,” you gasp.

“I don’t have a bunk,” he gasps.

“Are you fucking serious? It’s been months!” you say.

It might be exertion, but you could swear his frown gets serious indeed before he starts swiveling his hips on every thrust.

To distract you from the line of conversation? Well, it’s working.

Just as much as it’s working for you to watch him start to shake and clench his jaw, to watch him watch his own hand as it trails gently up the center of your body to cup your throat.

“God, you feel good,” he spits out. “Been thinking about this for— then you busted your foot and suddenly everywhere you sit you’ve got your legs propped open and when you bitch and moan your head goes back and your neck is just—“

His core flexes so he can mouth at said neck, and while you may be moaning, you are definitely not bitching.

“Come on, honey,” he mumbles under your chin. “Go for three, come on. Three out of four ain’t bad— Fuck, I can’t—“

He jerks beneath you, you feel a new rush of wet heat fill you, and something in you snaps. You may see stars.

Three out of four ain’t bad, at all.

You hang onto him until the aftershocks lessen, and your arms go limp.

He tucks your head onto his shoulder as you both pant, starts idly tracing your newer scars.

You grab his hand.

“Too gentle? Tickles?” he asks.

You kiss his fingertips. “It’s not— Everybody has them,” you say.

It’s been a scar-tacular few months.

“Hey, anybody hungry?” someone calls from down the corridor.

Don’s eyes fly open wide and he launches himself to slam the switch that shuts the cockpit doors.

Then he slumps you both back into position, puffing his cheeks on a relieved breath.

“Hey, it wasn’t one of the kids,” you say. “You know none of the rest of us mind this sort of thing, right?”

“You are the one without pants in this current situation,” he says. “I figured you might mind. A little.”

“Fair point,” you say.

Finally he whips his shirt off, and it’s to clean you up.

“Well, I don’t mind _that_ ,” you say, tracing a finger over his furred chest where there’s probably a scar to go with the old tear in his shirt.

He gives you a kiss. “I liked when you called me Donny. You should do that more often.”

You snort, blushing. “You looking forward to a lot of awkward erections around the others? More than you already get?”

“No! And hey, I do not! No, I mean— I mean when we do this. Which we should. More often. All the time. Always. As much as possible. A possible which we should work to make be very frequent.”

“You didn’t tell me you were a poet.”

“I got hidden talents,” he says, demonstrating by retrieving your fallen pants with his foot.

“They’re not that hidden,” you say.

He pulls a face like he’s trying to preen but he’s too exhausted. A crooked smile breaks out instead. “I really do like you,” he marvels, twining your fingers together. Then he just leaves them there, resting on his bare stomach.

You wonder if he’s been sleeping in this chair. He’s certainly well on his way right now.

You shiver again, and lean in to brush your lips along his for a while.

The digital display keeps ticking down. Nobody comes knocking at the door.

This is the most comfortable you’ve been in years.

“Hey, West?” you say, eventually.

“Hmm?”

“Wanna share a bunk?”

 


End file.
